


In the Spring

by gogollescent



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:32:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogollescent/pseuds/gogollescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Stephen and Emma, terror."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Spring

He gives her the guns at dawn, on a warm day when the old year’s snow is graying in the square. If London of December had an elfin modishness—was padded, bleached, with silver piping; the ruts of carriage-wheels carving out anger, not age—now it only looks like an old king, and sulks in state. Years ago Emma said to herself, I must drink every moment I am free. Look! How the snow plumes off the stagger of those drunkards! Finest beading. Look, the wind begins the work, and the sun will take it up. But that turned out to be the day’s sign-post to somewhere else. Soon afterward, she heard bells.

The waking world doesn’t hurt her. Steady dullness doesn’t sting. And? It’s difficult to thank a keeper that only smiles when handing her off. As though she were the weight on her own life’s neck, bearing it down—it smiles at the last moment before she falls asleep, shedding her gladly—at most she can in candor pity it. The house in London links arms with Lost-hope, nowadays. It leans very wearily on the brugh’s impatient shoulder.

But Stephen, by the window, makes a better prop for the room. Lines of glass press toward. He demonstrates the action of hammer and trigger, his hands shaking but careful, beringed with lamplight: light is always promoting Stephen. She thinks under his tutelage she could learn to be a good servant.

At some point she also thinks he’s satisfied with her performance here, and will load the gun. There’s an interval of idleness that strikes her as hopeful. At the end of it, he suggests an alternative. Stiffly. His eyes move to the framed white sky, reflect cold—Stephen and all the mirrors of Harley-street haven’t noticed this thaw; they are weeks off their proper time, growing younger daily.

She says no. She’s almost soothed; he assented so readily to begin with, hardly needing to be asked, that she’s been waiting ever since for the fist snatched back. She has been trained from childhood for denials posing boldly as indulgence. Except that she can’t read him, before or after she’s refused. She doesn’t even know if he wants to die. She would guess, if pushed, that he doesn’t want to be dragged away from the screaming horses, gawked at in the street—the earth perhaps really opening to swallow him. Saving him thus. What else does he shy at? She’s seen him, Stephen—he’s stern but flattering when confronted with a homesick page; he’ll set a cat on a mouse, a _particular_ mouse, as though releasing a marble, predicting well how it will fly. But he doesn’t like blood. He says yes, it’s time, I know. They’re agreed. Norrell’s had long enough. He doesn’t add, there is no reason it should be you, besides your rights.

Who loves the sight of blood? Though Emma remembers how it spotted her handkerchief as a girl. It smelled comfortable: like cold; like rest.


End file.
